


it's half your fault (so half forgive me)

by oceanofchaos



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Background Relationships, Coming Out, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Emotional Manipulation, Fix-It, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Healing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Injury Recovery, Internalized Homophobia, Introspection, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Recovery, References to Depression, Self-Discovery, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Stanley Uris Lives, Therapy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24041161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanofchaos/pseuds/oceanofchaos
Summary: They made it out, but once you survive you have to figure out how to live. Eddie has a lot to figure out, a lot to work on, but he's getting there. Recovery is a slow process, but he's getting there.----Waking up in the hospital to clean white walls, the beeping of medical machinery, and the tired smiles of his best friends in the world had been the best kind of surreal.Eddie had coughed a little, reached out until Bill leaned forward and passed him a glass of water. He had sipped at it a little, and vocal chords still feeling raw, croaked out, “Well I would ask if this was heaven but there’s no way we all got in.”Richie had burst immediately into tears, even as he laughed, and Ben had joined him, while Bev had started laughing at them, and the room had exploded into noise and happiness.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 83





	it's half your fault (so half forgive me)

**Author's Note:**

> as always, i wanted to write maximum 5k words on sexuality, and we ended up here. i've tried to incorporate tags for future chapters as well, but if i've missed any do let me know. 
> 
> the work's title is from "Not in Kansas" by the National

It’s hard to believe that it’s over, after everything.

They kill It, they get Stan back, and they all drag Eddie out of that fucking hellforsaken cavern before Neibolt House comes crashing down. They go straight to the hospital, and, after many tense hours pacing the waiting room, are told that things will in fact be fine. They made it. They all fucking made it, despite how impossible that feels, and it’s actually over.

Waking up in the hospital to clean white walls, the beeping of medical machinery, and the tired smiles of his best friends in the world had been the best kind of surreal. There were clear, bright beams of sunlight coming in through the window, and they made the neat folds of his sheets glow a bright white. It was a world away from the darkness and grime of the sewers, of Neibolt House, of It’s lair.

Eddie had coughed a little, reached out until Bill leaned forward and passed him a glass of water. He had sipped at it a little, and vocal chords still feeling raw, croaked out, “Well I would ask if this was heaven but there’s no way we _all_ got in.”

Richie had burst immediately into tears, even as he laughed, and Ben had joined him, while Bev had started laughing at them, and the room had exploded into noise and happiness. Excited chattering, as they explained how they’d found Stan, and what else had happened after Eddie had passed out, and how they’d killed the fucking clown for good this time. It was easy to fall back into cheerful camaraderie without the constant and overwhelming fear that they will die weighing them down. It had been so idyllic, so surreally perfect, felt like a fucking golden lit montage at the end of the movie: they got the bad guy, time for the happy ending.

It’s not until the next day, when Myra arrives and brings with her the real world, that the other shoe finally drops.

Suddenly all of the responsibilities of their actual daily lives come rushing into the room, and the halcyon mood that had permeated his hospital stay so far deflated like, well. Like a balloon. Suddenly Bill is on the phone to his wife about the filming delays, and Richie’s on the phone to his agent about the shows in Reno. Ben’s rescheduling meetings he’s missed, Mike’s compiling a handover for the next head librarian, and Bev’s filing for divorce remotely. Stan had already dealt with the real world a little, calling his wife before Eddie have even woken up, but he finally books a ticket back to Georgia so he can tell her he loves her in person. Eddie doesn’t have to do anything to confront his real life, because his real life came to Derry Hospital to confront him.

If Eddie had thought that Myra was angry before, when he first left for Maine, it only proved that he had been underestimating her. He’s never seen her like this, so furious she’s gone entirely cold, steely. Efficient, as she talks to the doctors about what kind of recovery he might need, and chivvies the Losers out of his room with clear rules to the nurses to never let them back in. Eddie cries out in protest at this, making it clear that he wants his friends to be welcome to visit him. She stalks around the hospital room with a sort of wounded pride, nursing her grudge as much as she does Eddie’s chest wound, and never once fucking listens to him. She ignores him with ease, and as it continues Eddie starts to feel the overwhelming guilt of someone who deserves to be in the doghouse. It doesn’t even take that long. Maybe two hours into Myra’s arrival, and subsequently the Losers’ disappearance, and it already feels like everything that has happened in Derry is inconsequential, or it was years ago. This thought hits Eddie like a fist to the face, and he’s suddenly struggling to breathe, as he follows the logic of his own thought: it feels like years ago; it’s starting to become unreal; he’s forgetting them again; he’s going to lose them again; soon he’ll be back in New York with Myra and none of this will have ever happened; there was no point being brave because he’s not getting a happy ending, it’s just _this_. Years and years of his future stretch out before him, and they all look exactly the same as each other, grey and unsatisfying, and undeniably his. Oh _god_. Around him, the noises of the machines are getting louder and more frantic, and Myra is at least paying attention to him again, screaming something at him, but he can’t hear it over his pounding heart, over his brain fucking screeching through the same cycle of thoughts. He can’t fucking _breathe_ , it keeps catching over and over as he tries to inhale and he’s not going to go back to New York because he’s not going to go anywhere, he’s dying in Derry after all this is just fucking typical. Eddie Kaspbrak was scared his entire life and then he died. The End.

It kind of reminds him of one of Bill’s books; life is trauma and then you die. The thought startles him enough that he accidentally takes in a breath, and then it’s easier again. Someone’s counting with him, and the room’s a lot quieter now, the machinery fading back into the background, and Myra’s screaming has gone quiet and faint. When Eddie opens his eyes again, there’s a nurse sitting next to his bed, counting his breaths in and out. She smiles softly at him, as he looks up at her, finally feeling calm again. It makes her crows feet crinkle, and Eddie thinks that the gentle way she holds his hand would probably considered maternal by anyone else in the world.

“Uh, thanks,” he says, brisk and perhaps a little shame-faced. “I don’t really know what happened there.”

“You’ve been through a lot in the past few days,” she replies, managing to sound both matter-of-fact and kind at the same time, “That can be overwhelming for anyone. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Right,” agrees Eddie, but he can feel his cheeks heat up a little as she says it. “Do you, uh, know where my wife’s gone?” He pulls his hand out of hers, smoothes out his sheets a little as though to suggest that’s the only reason for doing it.

“We had to ask her to leave the room,” explains his nurse, “Her reaction was just escalating the situation. I believe she was escorted back to the main waiting room, but we can send for her if you’d like her to return…”

“Not right now, thanks,” says Eddie quickly, “I just need a couple of minutes.”

“I understand,” says the nurse, and then hesitates, “Look Mr Kaspbrak, you have to understand that this is standard protocol and procedure, I’m sure I don’t mean anything by it, but I do have to ask. Are you comfortable with your wife being involved and informed as to your treatment?”

Eddie doesn’t know how to respond to that at first, just looking at this kindly older woman in shock.

“I mean, she’s my wife,” he starts, and then pauses, “You’re the ones who called her in the first place, I. Why wouldn’t I want her informed?” It’s supposed to be a challenge, but he accidentally gives it the cadence of a genuine question.

“She’s your emergency contact, and has power of attorney, and you were unconscious at the time. Now that you’re awake and of sound mind, how your treatment is handled is your decision, and that includes who is aware of the details of your injuries, who can visit you, and who knows what your next steps are going to be. If you don’t want your wife to be involved in that, you just say the word to me, and I’ll get it all squared away, don’t you worry.”

“I don’t…” Eddie trails off into contemplation. “Can I let you know later?” he asks, after a little while.

“Of course, sugar, you take as much time as you need,” she says with a smile, with such a basic level of kindness that it floors Eddie for a moment. “Is there anything else I can do for you while I’m here?”

“Are my friends still around?” he asked hesitantly, and at her nod continues on, “Could you send them back in here? Without telling my wife, if that’s okay?”

Within four minutes, the Losers Club are all crowded back around his bed, chattering happily about anything other than why they left in the first place. It’s sort of sweet. It’s a method of protecting him, sure, and while there’s been more than enough of that in his life, it’s not the cloying overprotection he had become used to. There’s a patient air to their smalltalk, like they’re letting him set the pace, giving him choices as opposed to taking them away.

Obviously that only lasts until Eddie makes direct eye-contact with Richie, who immediately gets a familiar gleam in his eye, and cuts obnoxiously over one of Bill’s anecdotes. “So, Eddie Spaghetti, what did we do to get back on the guest list?”

Eddie fakes a scowl, “Call me that again and you’re blacklisted again,” and Richie bites back a smile in response. It’s so easy to fall back into old patterns. “How did you all get in my room in the first place? I didn’t think about it earlier, but given I was out, and Myra’s my attorney-in-fact, should you have been allowed to visit in the first place?”

“He doesn’t want to see us!” exclaims Richie exaggeratedly, “I’m hurt, wounded even!”

“No, that’s Eddie,” Bev chimes in, neatly knocking Richie’s elbow aside before it can hit her.

“Having three rich famous white people in the group helped,” Stan says dryly, ignoring the others.

“Ben’s pretty famous too,” says Mike, “You know, for an architect.”

Stan shares a smirk with him, “Okay, three and a half famous people.”

“How unethical,” says Eddie, but he can’t pretend to be anything other than glad that they’re all still here. Glad that they got him out, glad they stayed until he woke up, glad they kept staying. Doesn’t mean they can stay forever though. “So, I’m thinking we should actually swap numbers, try to keep in contact this time.”

The mood in the room shifts slightly.

They look at each other, seemingly searching for what to say next. Eventually Bill sighs, and bites the bullet. “Well, I guess the big question is what’s your plan, Eddie?”

“Physical therapy, probably,” he snarks automatically, and then stops. “I’m not fully sure. Getting out of Derry as soon as possible, going back to New York, figuring out my next steps from there. There’s… there’s probably a lot that needs to change, now I can remember things more, but I’m not making those decisions right now. I _can’t_. So I’ll go home, we’ll all go home, and it’ll figure itself out in time, I suppose.”

Ben’s the one to clear his throat, and look down at him very seriously. “Look, Eddie, I don’t want to cross a line, but we love you, and just. I need to ask: do we need to be worried about your wife?”

It’s blunt, sure, but that’s not what makes Eddie’s throat close up for moment. These people haven’t even had him in their life for decades now, they barely know him anymore, and still they’re so concerned for him. Still they can recognise when he’s not in a good place, and care enough to check in. This maybe shouldn’t be ground-breaking, but it’s been a rough couple of years.

Eddie looks straight up at Ben with a faint smile, makes sure to glance around the room too, before saying with all the honesty in his heart, “You don’t need to worry.”

Now is where the miracle happens. His friends look him in the eyes, assess what he says, and nod in agreement, accepting his word, and taking his decision at face value.

“I’m serious about getting your numbers though,” he adds, “We’re not allowed to lose contact again.”

—

New York feels different, like a city he doesn’t know at all. Everything feels different, but everything _is_ different now, so that’s okay. It’s weirder, worse, with New York. Eddie moved there when he was twenty-one; his mom had died, and he suddenly had nothing tying him down, no commitments or people in the world who cared about him, so he had decided to go to university. New York is the first thing he knew he had chosen for himself, and it turns out now that it wasn’t the only thing he ever chose for himself, but for a long time he had thought that it was. New York was _his_ , in a way that things didn’t get to be his, or it had been. Now, he goes on walks around his block and he feels like he doesn’t recognise anything.

He can go for walks around town now, which is a pretty big deal. It took a couple of months of rest and recovery once he got back home to feel comfortable with going for a stroll. He can manage short jogs every so often, tries to go at least twice a week, and has been increasing the amount he can carry. He’s working from home for the foreseeable future, and only for three days a week at the moment. The walks are a relief, as things are truly fraught in his house right now. If Myra had her way, he wouldn’t even be out of bed yet. She hasn’t been able to forgive him for removing her power of attorney, much less asking that she is kept out of the loop of the details of his recovery. He still tells her things, of course he does, but he’s changed his GP to someone new, and she’s not allowed into the room when he has check ups. He keeps his prescriptions close, these days, and she couldn’t fill them if she tried. Eddie’s been firm about all of this, refusing to rise to the bait, even when she starts yelling or crying “in sickness or in health” at him.

Today, Eddie walks through Central Park, and wonders yet again what exactly he’s fighting to preserve here. It’s a beautiful day, that late summer heat, the sky bright and blue, the park full of people and laughter and love.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and when he checks it’s another call from Myra. He’d left without a coat, just thrown an old NYU jumper on, and although it’s a nice day, autumn is creeping up on them. _You’re just being reckless_ , she’d thrown at him as he’d laced his sneakers. _You won’t let me look after you, but you aren’t looking after yourself, Eddie-bear_ , as he’d grabbed his keys and wallet, and _It’ll get colder sooner than you think, and then where will you be? You’re going to make yourself worse, all over again_. He’d left the house at that point, but she’d just continued over text and phonecalls.

It’s so bad because he can’t deny she has a point. It’s early September, and while they’re having good weather now, it doesn’t mean that it won’t turn quickly, and he will be frustrated is his recovery regresses from here.

His phone buzzes again, and he checks it again, because he can’t not.

Thankfully, this time it isn’t Myra, but the groupchat with the Losers.

_hate to say it, but west coast might actually be the best coast_ , says Mike, complete with a beachside selfie.

_bite your tongue_ , Eddie responds. Mike’s sitting in a café on the beach, iced coffee and waffles in front of him, a seascape behind him, sunlight gleaming off of him.

_mike whyyyy,_ messages Ben.

_we lured him with brunch_ , says Bill, and then there’s another photo. Mike, Bill, Audra, and Richie are all in this one, squished together so that they can fit into frame, happy and squinting in the sunlight, cocktails and coffee visible in the corner of the shot.

It makes Eddie’s whole being ache. It really shouldn’t. This is what he wanted, right? A return to normal life, but this time he gets to keep his friends. It’s just a shame that their normal life is happening so far from his. It’s just a shame that he’s still working on his happy ending, and it’s turning out to be rather more work than he’d anticipated.

He’s set firm boundaries with Myra, and they’re working on it. He’s made a recovery plan with his PT, and it’s hard work, but he’s doing it. He’s even agreed to start seeing a therapist. He’s realising that he doesn’t like his job very much, but he can’t transition until he figures out what he’d like more, so he’s spending his four free days a week doing research into just that. It’s probably really sad that he’s forty and if asked to give a list of things he enjoys he’d have to tap out after like three. He doesn’t really have friends in New York, but he does have friends, and that’s pretty good on its own. When do you get to say a thing is good? Is there a moment where you’ve put in enough work, and it’s just obvious that you get to be happy now, or is he always going to be second guessing himself?

He just doesn’t recognise New York anymore. Does that matter? Is there a right answer for any of this?

Eddie flips over to the camera app, declines a call from Myra, and takes a selfie. Himself, smiling, the sunlit park behind him, the bright blue sky above. He sends it to the group chat with _we have good weather too, you know_.

He saves the picture of the others to his phone, and keeps walking.

—

It’s dark and cold, and blueblack. The air feels fetid, and he’s running as fast as he fucking can, but Richie hangs in the air, caught in the deadlights and perpetually out of reach. There are screams around him, and the sharp smell of fresh blood. There’s laughter somewhere too.

His eyes are white, caught in the deadlights, probably. Or just caught, just dead. Please be the deadlights.

It doesn’t matter how fast he runs, his lungs hurt and he can’t breathe, and he pushes through it all but he’s still so far.

He throws everything he has into it, and leaps. He gets a hold of Richie, and pulls him to the ground, but this time his eyes stay white. He lies, still and cold, under Eddie. Motionless.

He turns his head suddenly, neck twisting unnaturally to peer up at Eddie with white white eyes, “You’re too late, Eddie, you’re always too late,” he hisses, and it’s a condemnation.

Eddie starts crying, and the darkness of the cavern shifts, becomes a warmer redblack. He can hear the sound of cars and sirens passing by outside. He’s still crying, nearly hiccuping with it, and his sweat feels stale and cold.

“It’s just a dream, Eddie-bear, it’s just a dream,” reassures Myra quietly, reaching out from her side of the bed. He flinches a little at the contact, but she keeps stroking his arm, then his back soothingly. “Are you okay? Shhh shh, are you okay?”

Myra is a constant, and comforting for it.

“No,” Eddie admits in a whisper, not wanting to break the hushed truce they’ve found at 2am, “I’m really really not okay.”

“That’s alright, Eddie, that’s okay,” she coos, “I’ve got you, come here, I’ve got you Eddie-bear, you’re okay,” and she pulls him into her arms, and he goes. It’s soft, and Eddie feels bundled up, sure that the outside world can’t touch him. “I’ll protect you,” mutters Myra, sugar-sweet, “I’ll keep you nice and safe, I’ve got you.”

There’s a part of Eddie that thinks that doesn’t sound right, but most of him is scared and exhausted, and this is familiar and safe and warm, and before he can keep thinking he’s fallen back to sleep.

—

“When I’m back in town, we’ll have to go jogging together,” says Ben cheerfully, as Eddie cusses him out. “I prefer exercise with a buddy, I’m pretty sure.”

“When you’re back in town?” asks Eddie, “Wait do you live in New York? I though you lived in Chicago, or Lincoln, or some other subpar city. Fuckin’ I don’t know. Des Moines.”

“You’re such a dick,” says Ben fondly, “I have properties across the country, honestly. Hazard of the job I guess.”

“Yeah, owning property is such a _hazard_ , and I’m the dick, unbelievable,” cuts in Eddie, unable to help himself.

“I was thinking about checking in on the New York offices for a bit, I could afford to be a bit more hands on. Figured I’d relocate to the loft in Greenwich for a bit.”

“And Bev lives in New York, when she’s not on a boat with you.”

“Well, yeah. The court date is coming up, so she has to be in town. After that, I don’t know, we’ll see.”

“Yeah?” asks Eddie, stopping to take a breather. “You think you’ll end up back in wherever, Columbus?”

Ben makes a noncommittal noise, “It probably depends partially on what’s decided with her company, and obviously New York Fashion Week is big for her in general, so it’s not like we wouldn’t be in New York some of the time, but I don’t know that it’s got many good memories for her. Or, well, maybe not enough to balance it out. I don’t mind, obviously, we can make a life anywhere.”

There’s a pause on the line, and Eddie forces himself to talk, even though he feels like someone’s just punched him in the solar plexus, like he just hit the floor after a long fall and all the air has left his lungs. “You’re such a sap, Hanscom,” he manages.

“I know, I know! I just, well. I don’t think I knew how lonely I was. It’s not just Beverly, it’s all of you. It’s having all of you back in my life. I keep thinking that it wasn’t that bad before, but it’s so much better now, you know?”

“Yeah,” agrees Eddie, voice a little hoarse, “Yeah I get it.”

“So you’ll be down to go jogging together when I’m in town? Show me all your top routes, that sort of thing?”

“Sure, Ben.” It’s a nice thought, the two of them going for a morning run around Central Park, maybe stopping to get coffee or a smoothie before they head to their respective workplaces. Maybe he could go around for dinner some time, spend an evening relaxing with Ben and Bev in whatever luxury penthouse suite that Ben’s calling a loft. “Just let me know when you’re back in the city, it’d be good to see you again.”

“Neat!” exclaims Ben, sounding genuinely excited at the prospect, and it makes Eddie laugh.

“‘Neat’?” he asks teasingly , as he goes back to his circuit, “I know we’re old, but we’re not that old are we?”

—

It’s a very neat waiting room, walls a muted blue-grey, all white-painted wood and silver fixings, and soft, dark leather seats to sink into while he waits. There’s some sort of large fern in a dimpled white pot on the other side of the room, and Eddie tries to focus on that instead of watching the second hand tick slowly around. The problem with not wanting to be late to things is that he that he has still not managed to get the hang of being early. Waiting patiently is something he thought maybe he’d age into, but that never really happened.

“Edward Kaspbrak?”

He lets himself snap to attention, immediately getting to his feet, and picking up the jacket he had folded across the seat next to him.

“Sorry about that, I should have warned you that I try to allow for five minutes turnover time on either end. I’m Nadia Hamidi, it’s a pleasure to meet you in person.” She’s younger than Eddie expected, in her thirties probably, with her dark hair in a sleek bob, thin gold-wire glasses, and dressed in clothes that look sleek but comfortable. She might well shop at Rogan & Marsh. What a weird thought.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” he says instead, extending his hand for a brief handshake.

“Would you like anything to drink? Water, tea, coffee?” she offers, and when Eddie hesitates she continues on, “I’m going to get myself a mint tea either way, it’s no trouble at all, I promise.”

“Then mint tea would be lovely,” concedes Eddie.

There’s a kitchenette on the way to her office, and they pause there while she makes tea. It’s sort of excruciating. Meeting someone new is one thing, and Eddie’s a pro at making polite smalltalk, he has been since he was seven years old and realised he needed to charm his friends’ parents into vouching for him or his mom would never let him have dinner elsewhere. Given practice makes perfect, Eddie’s also pretty spectacular at getting to know a new medical professional at this point. It’s a different, but definitely related skillset. Despite all of his general, well, everything, Eddie’s got no experience in meeting a therapist.

If he’d known about therapy as a kid, and had lived anywhere other than fucking Derry, maybe he could have tried to see someone about his mother when he was a teenager. By the time he was a legal adult, he’d forgotten that what she was doing wasn’t okay, so when she died, and he was free to make his own medical decisions for the first time, therapy didn’t even occur to him. He and Myra had latched onto each other pretty quickly in his first year at NYU, just as friends at first, but on the rare occasions that mental health had come up, she’d been pretty dismissive. Besides, the more time passed, the more Eddie didn’t want to think about it, because it felt like admitting to a kind of failure. If he needs help then that’s admitting that he’s fucked up, both he _has_ and he _is_.

He probably wouldn’t even be seeing a therapist now, but after what his doctors liked to refer to as “the Incident”, and the Losers would consider “fucking Derry”, he’d agreed to see someone for a couple of sessions. It had been the strong medical advice of his doctors, and then, when he’d been dubious, various members of the Losers had evangelised to him. Being able to remember his childhood gave him the final push. There was a freedom which had come from escaping the first time, and maybe this time he doesn’t have his whole life ahead of him, maybe he has a significant chunk of it behind him, but he wants to see if he can grab that feeling again. Even just for a moment.

So here he is, leaving the kitchenette, and following Dr. Nadia Hamidi to her office.

Her office is similarly neat and beautiful, full of natural light and bright green houseplants. She gestures to another soft dark leather chair, and Eddie takes a seat stiffly, clutching his mug of tea tightly.

“So, Edward, may I call you Edward?” she asks politely.

“I prefer Eddie, if that’s all the same to you,” he says, overwhelmingly aware of how on edge he feels.

“Eddie, of course. Feel free to call me Nadia.” She pauses, takes a sip of tea. Her voice is warm, as is her gaze, and she’s being perfectly normal. It’s Eddie who’s fucking this up. “Shall we go over the reasons why you’re here? We talked about it a little in the phone interview, but I think it might help to talk about it in person as well.”

Eddie feels frozen for a brief moment, and then remembers yet again how to be brave. This is terrifying, but it’s not terrifying in the same way that entering Neibolt was, or realising he’d lost 27 years of his life, or even like the nightmares he gets are.

He takes a breath.

“Well, my dad died with I was little, and my mom was extremely controlling, and there was this incident with, uh, a serial killer when we were kids, and then I repressed all of that but I remembered recently and then also we met up with the serial killer again, and I nearly died and ended up in hospital, and the trauma team were really insistent that I should talk to someone about all of this. Also I have hypochondriac tendencies.” Eddie feels nauseous after spitting all of that out, so he takes a deep sip of his tea, hoping to settle his stomach. “Is that what you meant? I’ve never really done this before, but in, uh, in movies when they see a therapist they go straight to like their parents and their childhood, so. That seemed. Um.” Eddie has to make a concerted effort to stop talking for long enough that Nadia can actually reply to him.

“Well, admittedly I was referencing your injury, and the night terrors you mentioned on the phone, but that does seem to summarise a lot.” She pauses, and smiles at him like they’re in on the same joke, “I know in movies it’s always about childhood, and normally I’d say that its reductive to assume that our mental health is only shaped by our parents, or growing up. Given you’ve recently had some triggers which very literally stem from your childhood, however, I think it’s safe to say that we are going to be going into that at some point.” Her glasses have large hexagonal lenses, and she pushes them up her nose delicately, as she looks over a notebook on the side table next to her. “Look, Eddie, it’s okay that you haven’t done this before, you don’t have to worry about doing this wrong. There’s no real ‘right’ way to do therapy, okay? If I was going to say there was a wrong way, I’d say it would be to never show up, but you’re already here, so you have nothing to worry about on that front.” Nadia waits until Eddie smiles slightly in response before she continues. “You certainly don’t have to force yourself to tell me everything up front, particularly as these topics might be hard or painful to talk about; we have time, we’ll get there when you’re ready. How about we start with what you’re hoping to gain from this? What’s your best case scenario for therapy?”

Eddie lets out a harsh breath, drinks some more tea, makes himself think about it. He’s great at reacting to things, bouncing off immediately from what’s been said, but historically it’s when he let himself really think about things that he tends to falter. Overthink himself into paralysis.

“The nightmares,” he starts, “I don’t know if there’s even a way to make them just _stop_ , but. I’d like to get rid of the nightmares. I tend to, god I don’t even know how to phrase this. I don’t think I’m very good at thinking. It’s so easy to get caught up inside my own head, and think and overthink until I can’t even recognise my own thoughts. It’s, I guess I tend to, well, spiral, for want of a better word for it. I just caught so caught up in my own nervous energy, and then I end up yelling just to feel calm again, and I’m so fucking paralysed about where my life is going at all times. I just.” Eddie stops, takes a deep breath in, and looks pleadingly at Nadia.

“Take your time, it’s okay,” she soothes, “It’s okay.”

“What do I want from therapy? I want to feel like I’m in control. I want to not be so fucking afraid all the time, because I am, I’m scared _all the time_ , and I couldn’t even tell you why. I want to live my life, instead of it passing me by. I want to be brave.” His voice is rough, like the words scraped his throat on the way out.

“Reaching out for help if you need it _is_ brave, Eddie,” says Nadia, and it’s a benediction that he hadn’t known he needed to hear.

—

Eddie gets back from a morning jog with Ben, and finds Myra in the hallway, literally wringing her hands. The good mood he’d cultivated begins to evaporate, and suddenly instead of feeling comfortable and accomplished, he’s increasingly aware of the sweat on his neck and back, of the smell of it, the itch. They’d stopped for coffee, and at the time it hadn’t bothered him, but now Eddie’s overwhelmingly aware that they must have looked and smelled a mess at the café.

“You’re back!” exclaims Myra, “How was your run, Eddie-bear?”

Eddie narrows his eyes. Myra doesn’t really approve of his runs. She won’t believe him when he says he doesn’t actually have asthma, and keeps telling him that mind over matter will only go so far. “It was good,” he says, laying a trap, “I went pretty fast, even beat my last record.” It had rained all night, and while it was almost entirely dry by the morning, he knows Myra well enough to know that wouldn’t reassure her in the slightest.

“That’s nice,” she says absently, “Well you should probably go have your shower.” She starts to head into the living room, and Eddie realises that she’s holding something out of view.

He follows her.

“Myra, what’s going on?” he asks, patient as he can manage, but voice tight with restrained frustration.

“What do you mean?” she asks, and Eddie’s rarely seen her so squirrelly.

“What are you hiding from me, Myra?” he asks, and he can see her start to square herself up for a fight, before she breathes out explosively.

“This arrived,” Myra says acidly, thrusting a postcard out towards him, “It’s from your _friend_.” He can practically hear the airquotes in her voice. As he takes it, she storms out of the room, muttering under her breath.

It’s a hysterically tacky little collage of different pictures from all over Buenos Aires, and suddenly Eddie understands. Patty had already sent out the letters by the time Stan had been able to call her and explain that he was back, and everything was fine after all. She’d warned them over FaceTime what would be waiting for them all when they’d gotten home, and Stan had winced and explained in more depth. It hadn’t really registered with Eddie initially, but when Myra had arrived in Derry, she had made it abundantly clear that Stan’s letter had arrived, and she’d seen it. She was openly pretty skeptical and disapproving of Stan, citing him as a bad influence on Eddie, like that’s how mental health works. It makes sense to Eddie that she wouldn’t want him to see a postcard from Stan, and simultaneously makes him proud to think that she understands him better now, understands him enough to know that actually getting rid of the postcard would be a mistake. This seems like it’s progress of a sort.

The postcard reads:

_Hi Eddie!_

_I’d say wish you were here, but I’m having a great time with Patty, so I think I’m good. It’s lovely here, we saw a rufescent tiger-heron this morning, just in the downtown area. It’s a little odd, coming to terms with feeling free. It’s like a there was a weight lifted off of me, and I hadn’t known it was there, I hadn’t remembered what it felt like to be free, hadn’t realised I wasn’t. I’ve been talking to Patty (she says hi!), and we think we’d like to organise a group holiday. Consider this the invitation, we’re thinking a Losers ( & co.) Friendsgiving, once we’re back in the country._

_Hope you’re doing well, and that you’re happy in New York. Plan to see you soon._

_Love,_

_Stan ( & Patty)_

Eddie finds himself grinning down at the postcard, excitement radiating through him. Just because they talk all the time doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss the others. It’s not the same, chatting in the groupchat, or the occasional FaceTime or phonecall. It’s good, of course, but it’s not the same as all of them together. They forgot each other for so long that nothing else really compares to being able to be in each others’ presence, and just relax.

Moreover, it would be really nice to meet Patty and Audra properly. He’s talked to them a bit on FaceTime, but fleetingly, and it doesn’t really feel like he’s actually gotten to meet either of them. He’d like to. For all that the Losers are eternally bonded courtesy of fighting an evil magical alien clown who can literally manifest as your worst fears, that’s a very high stakes relationship. They lived, and they got to keep each other, and Eddie would like to be able to keep each other in low stakes scenarios as well. They’ve earned that, surely. They should be allowed to just exist in each others real, adult lives, and get to know how they decorate their living rooms, or what quirks they have which their partners tease them for. Just normal life stuff. A group holiday seems perfect for that sort of normalcy, trust Stan to have come up with it. Eddie sits down on the couch, and gives himself a moment to imagine what it will be like, how Stan and Patty will orbit each other as they prepare a meal, how Audra and Bev will bond by teasing Bill over breakfast. In his mind’s eye, an excited Mike shows an enraptured Ben a series of photos from his roadtrip, and Richie blinks down at him, hair all sleep-mussed, as he goes for a mug of coffee. He can’t fucking wait.

Upstairs, a door slams. Eddie hits reality at what seems like breakneck speed.

The invite is to “the Losers (& co.)”, and given he’s assuming that Audra and Patty will be there, it seems reasonable that everyone else will expect him to bring Myra. Myra who was already holding the postcard when he got home. Myra who probably knows all about the trip already, but who would never in a million years agree to go to it. Who would never in a million years agree to Eddie going. Something else slams around upstairs, and there’s no way that this isn’t also what Myra is thinking about. There’s not much of a choice to be had here, really. The real question becomes whether he argues with Myra about himself going, or about her coming with him. He can’t really picture it, given the amount of bickering that had happened in the few days in which the Losers and Myra had overlapped in the hospital, can’t imagine the same idyllic scenes with Myra present. That’s shitty of him, probably.

He’s never really been able to forget that when it was all over, the first thing Stan did was call his wife, and Eddie’s not sure he would have even told Myra what had happened if the hospital hadn’t called her. He reads the postcard over again, stroking the neat lettering absentmindedly. Patty wants to meet everyone, to get to know the people who mean a lot to Stan, to give them a chance to mean a lot to her. Myra doesn’t even want Eddie to have them in _his_ life, let alone her own.

This is a part of them being grown up though, this is the difference between being a kid and an adult, even if maybe it hits a little too close to how things were back then. If he wants to be able to see everyone else in their normal, real lives, then he’s going to have to accept that they get to see him in his normal, real life. It’s a daunting thought. It would be worth it still, if he gets to see them, if he gets to relax with his family all in one room. It’ll be worth whatever arguments this causes, if he gets to see them outside of horror and trauma and nightmares, just because he wants to. Just because they’re all choosing to keep each other.

—

His PT doesn’t really seem to understand how he’s recovering so well, but neither had his doctors at the hospital. Probably some kind of magic or karmic justice from the universe isn’t really a reason he can give, even though Eddie’s pretty sure that’s what it is. Between Stan floating back down to them, and his own injury seemingly moving about an inch to the right while he was unconscious, Eddie’s pretty sure that something supernatural was involved. Again, this is not something he wants to say to Theo, his PT, even if it might help alleviate all the unsubtle side-eyes he’s been getting. There’s only so many more times he can say “Lucky, I guess” and get away with it.

“Okay, let’s try that again,” says Theo, and Eddie nods in agreement.

They’ve been doing lots of different things, all sorts of exercises and stretches to try to build back the muscles which were damaged, some spine manipulation, and cryotherapy to help with pain. Theo finally convinced Eddie to give dry needling a go, on the grounds that it would be good for the twinges of muscle pain he still gets, and also because Eddie admitted that he’s been trying to attempt new things. It’s not unlike acupuncture, which is definitely something Eddie thought he’d never try, but which Theo swears by.

“How does it feel?” asks Theo.

Eddie grits his teeth for a moment, before admitting, “It hurts, but in a good way? Like I can feel it stinging, but it’s like pressure being released. Something like that.”

“Don’t tell anyone else in the department I said this, but you should try a proper acupuncturist. I can give you the card for mine, if you want,” responds Theo, doing something which makes Eddie’s whole left arm feel sharply painful for a moment, and then almost immediately significantly better. “She’s technically my aunt, but she’s very good.”

“Why can’t I tell the rest of the department?” asks Eddie, somewhat absent-mindedly, mostly focused on being extremely present in his body.

“There’s some big dry needling versus acupuncture debate, and because I’m a medical professional I’m supposed to think acupuncture is a scam, or something? I’m not really sure, Jeremy Blithe, the boss, explained it when I first started at this practice, but to be honest I wasn’t really interested, so I didn’t pay much attention.” Theo is a young man, young-looking enough that when Eddie had first met him, he’d been sure that Theo must have just graduated. He’s shorter than Eddie, which is always slightly satisfying, and very charming, and the one time that Myra had accompanied him to a session and complained that Theo was pushing Eddie too much, he had very politely explained his credentials and manoeuvred her out of the room so masterfully she hadn’t even been annoyed.

“Okay,” says Theo, “You can sit up now. Session’s over. How are you feeling?”

Eddie slowly pushes himself up to sitting. He rolls his shoulders a slightly, stretches his head from side to side, really lets himself take stock. “I’m feeling good,” he says, pleased to know that he truly means it, “I’m feeling really good.”

Theo smiles at him, pleased, and holds a hand up for a high-five, which Eddie grants with a rueful smile.

“Thanks again, Dr. Chen,” says Eddie, getting his things together.

“Always a pleasure, Mr Kaspbrak,” replies Theo with a smile, waving him out of the room. “I’m giving you my auntie’s number, she’s so good. Saturday’s session is going to be focused on some new exercises to build back strength, really start to regain the range of movement in your back.”

Eddie decides to take the long way back home, maybe treat himself with some fresh-pressed juice on the way. There’s a stall just a few blocks away that does a delicious peach and mint juice, and it feels like the perfect post-PT indulgence.

It’s been a slow road, it’s going to keep being a slow road, but he’s getting there. Some days are worse than others, and even a fast walk can twinge or tire him out, but those are increasingly far and few between. He can go for jogs, even light runs on a regular basis, and most of the time he can manage carrying the grocery shopping without even taking a break on the way home.

His body’s not exactly what he was used to, anymore, and the recovery is only part of that. There’s the large scar in the centre of his chest, neatly between his heart and his spine, and the smaller scar bisecting his cheek, for a start. There’s also the calves he’s been working on, as he goes for runs which he would never have dared to go on before Derry. There’s a level of trust in his own body, his own self, that he never could have imagined. For all that he’s actually more injured than he’s ever been, he feels healthier than he’s ever been as well. Like he’s finally figured out how to exist within his own body, like he can finally trust his own judgement on what is and isn’t a problem. It’s revelatory. Even with a livid scar healing across his chest, Eddie thinks he prefers how he looks now to how he looked six months ago, always tense and carrying the weight of a thousand health fears on his shoulders. It takes a second to recognise his own reflection sometimes, but that’s a good thing, he’s pretty sure. Even the aches and pains he has now feel earned, gained through his own hard work to recover, and to get an ownership over his own body he’s never really had before. Eddie gets the final word on what does or doesn’t go into his body, or at least what medication, and it feels _good_. It feels like he’s finally recovering something which has maybe always been lost.

He savours the peach juice on his walk home, and makes sure to bin both the cup and the receipt at least two blocks away.

—

During it all, there’s also Richie. Well, not it _all_ , exactly. The first two weeks after Eddie landed in New York, Richie didn’t talk to him at all. He replied in the group chat to general questions, and Bill sent some pictures of the two of them, so Eddie knew he was doing okay, but he never fucking talked to Eddie.

It took two weeks until Eddie decided he was going to have resolve it himself. He might have forgotten them all for over twenty years, but he still knows Richie deep down, on some unexplainable level. He knows him down to the bones, and he can recognise Richie’s abandonment issues from across the country so he didn’t waste time being offended or hurt, and simply took a morning to call him and keep calling until Richie picked up. He yelled at Richie until he he was laughing and crying and apologising all at once, and he never let up. They whatsapp almost every day, in the group or in private messages, though Eddie still has to initiate most of it. It aches a little, but only because he knows it means that Richie isn’t sure about his place in Eddie’s life yet. Sometimes when he’s gone for a walk, and New York feels particularly unrecognisable, Eddie imagines what it would be like to live in the same place as Richie, so he could barge his way into his life more easily, instead of having to rely on their phones. Some days are bad days, and after the first time where Eddie freaked out badly, Richie will send him a text before he turns his phone off for the rest of the day. Those are the worst, probably. Where he knows that Richie is out there, struggling, and his phone is off, and Eddie is helpless, except to text Bill to go bother Richie in real life, because Eddie is hours and miles away. It’s whatever.

They all talk a lot these days, anyway, because it turns out that the trauma and forgetting and remembering has made them wildly co-dependent, but it feels different with Richie, because their dynamic has always been that of two people constantly needling each other. Eddie’s never known how to give Richie space, and he’s uninterested in learning now.

The point is, well, Eddie’s not quite sure what the point is. It’s here somewhere. He talks to Richie every day that he can, to the point where he’s more up to date on Richie’s life than anyone else’s, even though Ben and Bev are back in New York now. Maybe that’s why he feels so thrown when Richie tells the groupchat that he has news and wants to have a group skype about it.

_news since two hours ago?_ he messages Richie privately, _oh did you hear back from netflix??_

_god u’re so fuckin impatient_ replies Richie, which isn’t really an answer either way, but before he can press any further, the others all chime in to say when they’re free for a group call.

They decide on half an hour’s time, and Eddie ends up pacing his study while he waits. He sort of wants to make himself something to drink just to kill time, but honestly Myra’s reading a book in the living room, and they’re in the middle of a silent cold war, and leaving the study feels like conceding defeat, so he stays pacing restlessly instead.

Finally, _finally_ , it’s time for the skype call, and Eddie dials in two minutes early. Immediately, Richie starts laughing at him.

“You’re keen, huh Spaghetti?” he says, voice a little tinny in his headphones, but squinting up at his webcam like he’s sort of pleased about it.

“Look, I was told there was going to be big news,” defends Eddie, “You’re never early, what’s your fucking excuse?”

“I called the meeting!” protests Richie, and Eddie can feel his shoulders relaxing, as all the inexplicable tension of waiting fades.

“When has that ever stopped you from being late?”

“I’m not sure I appreciate what you’re insinuating,” starts Richies, but he’s cut off as the others start joining the call.

“Please tell me we didn’t actually dial in to watch you two bicker,” says Stan, sounding long-suffering. In the background someone swats at his head, and there’s a faint admonishment of “ _Be nice to your friends, Staniel_ ,” which must come from Patty.

“God I love your wife,” says Richie in reverence, and Patty pokes her head into frame to wave to Richie.

“She has her charms,” Stan agrees cooly, like they didn’t all listen to him wax poetic for hours back when Eddie was in hospital.

“Pretty sure we didn’t dial in for this either,” Eddie interjects, and the conversation devolves into everyone talking over each other, trying to say hi and catch up despite the steadily decreasing sound quality: Stan and Patty are back from Buenos Aires finally, and back in Georgia, Patty wanders in and out of the conversation as she bakes something; Bill’s in Vancouver with Audra as she films some sort of indie drama, she pops into frame at one point to wave hello, but ultimately heads into another room to run lines in peace; Ben and Bev are in the Greenwich loft, and they get all coo over their dog Knight before he gets put into a bedroom so he’ll stop barking excitedly; Mike’s hit Portland in his grand American tour, so he calls from his hotel room, and waxes lyrical about Powell’s until they have to cut him off. Eddie gives everyone a perfunctory update on his recovery, before he turns the conversation back to Richie. Richie who is sitting in the living room of what must be his LA house? Condo? Eddie doesn’t even know, he realises, which is kind of disconcerting. Richie who is being unnaturally quiet, for all that he’s engaging in the conversation, just doing his absolute best to deflect attention, like they aren’t going to notice. Like they don’t fucking _know_ him.

“Come on, man,” cajoles Eddie eventually, pushing only because it’s been long enough now that he thinks Richie might need the push, “Stop holding out on us. What’s the big news? _Did_ you hear back from Netflix?”

“You were in talks with Netflix?” exclaims Ben, “Oh are you going to get a comedy special? How cool!”

“Well, I. That’s not the news, exactly,” hedges Richie, “But I guess it’s not unrelated, so that’s as good a segue as any.

“It turns out, I haven’t totally destroyed my career in comedy yet,” says Richie, and Eddie’s eyes narrow because as much as he wants to interrupt, this sounds worryingly rehearsed. “I’ve got some thoughts about that, so, uh, I’m going to be writing my own material.” They start to explode in congratulations, and Richie waves his hands quickly to keep their attention. “There’s, ugh god I hate this, there’s some stuff in it which I’d rather. Well actually I’d rather you find out from the next stand-up special, like everyone else, but I actually care about you people, and also I fully can’t guarantee that any of you assholes will _watch_ one of my acts, so. Uh.” He pauses for so long that Eddie thinks for a moment that the call has cut out at this crucial moment.

“Spit it out, Rich,” he finds himself saying, “What is it?”

“I’m not afraid of clowns,” Richie blurts, “I never was.” There’s a beat, where they all start to react, confused, and Richie waves his hands at them again and keeps going, “I mean, I probably am now, for obvious reasons, but I wasn’t afraid of them the first time. I was– I’m gay. That’s the news I wanted to tell you, I’m gay, and I’m going to come out publicly, but I wanted you guys to know first.” He stops, and even through his shitty webcam, it’s clear he’s gone extremely pale. “So, that’s it. I’m gay.” He does a little jazz hands motion. “Can someone fucking say something please?”

There’s immediately a chorus of “we loves you”s, and “thank you for telling us”es, and Bill says “Well done!” which makes Richie laugh.

Eddie’s pretty sure he joined in on the general chorus, but he honestly can’t remember. “You’re so brave,” he manages, and hopes no one thinks his voice sounds shaky. His heart is pounding, he realises, like he’s in the middle of a fucking race. Like he’s running for his life.

“Okay, fuck, well that went well,” says Richie, and he looks overwhelmed, but he’s beaming at them through the laptop, and Eddie’s heart fucking hurts to see him.

“Does this mean we don’t have to bother watching your new stand up?” teases Bev, and they all start laughing, and joking with Richie.

Under the table, where they won’t be able to see he’s distracted and mock him for it, Eddie gets out his phone and texts Nadia to arrange an emergency session, because he’s pretty sure it’s not healthy to react so badly to your friends’ getting their lives together.

—

Eddie’s savouring his last day of working from home. Obviously he’s spent a lot of time at home recently, and that’s not exactly the most exciting thing, but it certainly has its benefits. The number of pointless meetings he’s in every day hasn’t changed, but dialling in via Google Meets, he quickly discovered that he can leave the camera off to “save bandwidth” and then just actually get some fucking work done during the meeting instead of sitting there impatiently.

There’s four other people in this meeting, and its just going over something they’d all agreed on before he even left for Maine, so Eddie’s taking a certain vicious pleasure in ignoring it entirely while he prepares his report for the Waterbridge project. He double checks the dossier, triple checks it.

The issue with being back in contact with the Losers, is he’s seen what it’s like to genuinely care about your job. Eddie had always sort of thought that it was a fundamental part of adulthood: either you hate your job, or, like sex and buying your first home, it’s not as exciting as it’s hyped up to be but you pretend to love it anyway. The Losers, though, they seem to really, truly, genuinely, love their jobs. Or, well. Bill, Bev, and Ben do. Richie loves the idea of his, loves the field, although he says he wants to change the practical details. Stan says that he finds accountancy soothing, that the rows of numbers are relaxing to him. Mike says that he likes research, but he doesn’t love his job, and that’s why he quit. He’s already looking for some other research-based job for when he stops travelling, something which will fit him better.

Eddie doesn’t love his job, that’s for sure. He’s certainly never found risk analysis to be soothing, the direct opposite, if anything. He can’t count the number of times where he can trace a spiral in his thoughts or fears directly back to a casefile he’d been working on earlier that day. And he’s most certainly never thought about quitting. It’s a good job, or at least it pays stupidly well, and frankly a lot of people do jobs that they don’t particularly like. He likes having money, honestly fuck knows how the last year would have gone if he didn’t have enough savings for private healthcare.

Admittedly, even with the medical bills taken care of, Eddie’s got a pretty solid savings account. So he could probably afford to do something else, something he did care about. A vocation that he could rave about in the same way that the other Losers tend to. It’s just, well, that’s a whole other problem in itself: if he were to quit, what would he even _do_? What does he like, or care about? If there had been an obvious choice out there for him before, then that’s what he would already be doing, surely?

When he went to university, Eddie hadn’t really known what he wanted to study. The whole world had been his oyster, and it was overwhelming. He’s picked a business major because it seemed sensible, practical, and he honestly hadn’t know what else he might want to study. Risk analysis had, likewise, made sense. He might not like it, but Eddie’s always been skilled at figuring out the worst case scenario, and monetising that skill didn’t seem like a bad idea. Hasn’t been, arguably. More to the point, Eddie’s not entirely sure what other skillsets he actually has. Pivoting to a whole new role at this point in his life might not be worth it, and he’d probably have to start at the bottom rung of the ladder all over again, and. And he can’t even think of something he’d rather be doing, for all that this meeting feels like it might plausibly a circle of hell.

Medicine is definitely out, he doesn’t need to trade in one job that preys on his issues for another. He’s not very creative, never has been, so he probably couldn’t handle the arts. Math is fine, but it’s kind of boring, and it certainly doesn’t soothe him the way that Stan claims. Maybe he should be doing what Mike and Richie talked about, and figuring out what aspects of his job he likes, and building off of that. There’s got to be some aspects of his job he likes.

“There’s actually an email chain on this exact topic from February,” says Natalie, “I think you were CC’ed in on that, Peter. Here, I’ll forward it to you again.”

Eddie mutes his mic so that he can sigh heavily, and then decides, _fuck it_. Turning both his mic and camera back on, Eddie smiles somewhat meanly into the camera.

“Look, their project should simply have been killed months ago. We all know it. We mitigated what we could, we reduced the impact as much as possible, but there’s no way that they aren’t going to go well past the acceptable threshold. There are at least three emails and four slack channels where everyone talks around it, because the second we acknowledge it out loud we have to tell the client, and we all know they’re going to bulldoze on through anyway. Sometimes that’s the job. I’m calling it, our official recommendation has to be to kill the project. We’re not going to be able to salvage a fuck up this bad, we aren’t miracle workers, and frankly they aren’t paying us enough. Neal, you’re the main contact, correct? Tell them by this afternoon. Let’s stop having the same meeting every two days.” Eddie stays long enough for them all to nod at him, cowed, and then exits out of the meeting.

He likes that. Not just telling people what to do, but problem solving. It’s more fun when he actually gets to save the day, but this is still satisfying. There’s probably some kind of role that’s more managerial that he could move into, or at least less hyper-focused on every little possible danger. Maybe he could even do a co-ordinator job in a slightly different field, one more step removed from risk assessment.

Actually leaving his job would be a major step though. Eddie’s been working at the same company since he graduated, and he can’t really imagine what it would be like to be somewhere new, with new coworkers. Plus, he has good benefits right now, and he can’t imagine that Myra would be very supportive of him leaving his job. She’s always been very supportive of his position, and has said multiple times that she thinks he’s very suited to be a risk analyst, because he’s so sensible and careful. Maybe it’s not her choice, but it’s not entirely his either, that’s what being married means. It’s their life, together, so it’s their choice, together. That’s how it works.

—

Mike’s made it all the way to Chicago. He sends them selfies whenever he hits a new city, or even just sees a particularly interesting landmark, but he also tries to call the other Losers once a week. Eddie’s day is Thursday.

“I really like it here,” says Mike, on the phone, “It’s a nice city to explore. I feel like you can really get a sense of the different neighbourhoods as you walk around, and all the public art is lovely.”

“Like galleries?” asks Eddie, absent-mindedly. He’s gone grocery-shopping, and while he’s following a list which Myra gave him, he’s gone to a new store. Just to get a little variety.

“No, like large sculptures in the street. You have these beautiful old Gothic buildings, and then directly next to them, a large metal Picasso piece, and then a modern skyscraper, all mixed together. The buildings are so tall here, as well,” explains Mike.

Eddie scoffs before he can help himself, “Well you haven’t gotten to New York yet.”

“You know looking back I think you were always a born and bred New Yorker? You just happened to be in Maine,” says Mike dryly, and Eddie huffs a laugh. “I’ll get there at some point, but right now, I’m enjoying Chicago for all it’s worth. They’re still getting the dog days of summer here, so I’m going to spend tomorrow on the beach.”

“No, I’m pretty sure you’re not.” Eddie’s in the rice section of the dry foods aisle, but he can only find jasmine or basmati, not the brown rice which is supposed to be so much better for cardiac health, let alone the sprouted brown rice. “They don’t have any ocean in Chicago, so you can’t go to a beach. You could spend some time on the lakeside, I guess.”

“It’s got sun, sand, and waves: it’s a beach,” says Mike, but he sounds too amused for Eddie to fall for his exasperated shtick.

“Weren’t you a librarian? Shouldn’t you know how to look up the accurate definitions to words?”

“Language is constantly evolving, dick,” laughs Mike. “Besides I went by it when I visited the zoo today, and it is definitely 100% a beach, I’ll send you a picture and you’ll agree.”

There’s just no brown rice anywhere. Eddie grabs a bag of wild rice instead. It won’t kill him.

“Did you feel like you were wasting your life?” he asks Mike, apropos of fucking nothing, “Back when you were in Derry, I mean.”

“Uh, fuck Eddie,” says Mike, clearly stunned, and then immediately, “No it’s fine, it’s fine,” before Eddie can even start to apologise. “Sometimes I did, yeah. On the bad days. Sometimes I thought, _I fucking hate this town, and I’m not doing anything worthwhile with my life, and no one will ever care about what I’ve lost_. On the worst days, I knew what I was doing was worth it, I knew someone had to stay and remember or more people would die, more children would die, and I still felt like it was a waste of my life. Children die all the time, right, and I’d think _Why does it have to be me, does it have to be me, why am I even doing this_ , and then I wouldn’t be sure if those were even my own thoughts or if It was trying to influence me to forget as well, so It could have free reign over Derry forever.”

“I’m sorry, Mike, I’m so fucking sorry we left you there,” Eddie starts, still standing in the middle of a dry foods aisle in some bougie Whole Foods knockoff. “I’m s–”

“Hey Eddie? Shut up,” says Mike fondly, “I’m not done, and also I’ve told you all to stop apologising for that, and I meant it.”

“Right,” agrees Eddie meekly, “Sorry, continue.”

“Look, did I sometimes feel like I was wasting my life? Yes. Did that mean I actually wasted my life? No. On the good days, I knew that even though it wasn’t what I would have chosen at first, I had found things I liked, and had things I enjoyed. The whole of it wasn’t perfect, but I could look at the good parts, and be satisfied enough. On the best days, I knew that one day you’d all come back, and we’d win. None of it was a waste, because we got to be reunited. We got to defeat It, and free Derry, and we all managed to make it out, despite everything.

“But also it wasn’t a waste, because I don’t think you can waste your life, Eddie, not really. Not as long as you’re still living. I’m in Chicago, four months into a tour of the entire country, when part of me thought I was never going to leave Derry’s town limits. It’s not a waste, because it can still change, and improve. Because it’s not fixed into being what it was, and it’s not _over_. You see what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” says Eddie quietly, “I’m crying in a fucking supermarket, but I see what you’re saying.”

Mike laughs a little, but softly, _with_ Eddie as opposed to _at_ him, and lets Eddie change the subject without pushing him, because Mike’s the best like that.

—

“Be sensible about this, Eddie-bear!” For a moment, Eddie hears it in stereo, two women, decades apart, figures almost overlapping like an out of focus photo. “If you won’t do it for you, at least do it for me,” she pleads cloyingly. “Is it so much to ask? That you bring your inhaler with you?”

“I don’t need it,” snaps Eddie. He’s trying to stay calm, he really is, but he’s suddenly filled with adrenaline, and it’s taking all his energy to just stay in the room.

Myra gives a wretched little sob, and of _course_ it’s Myra, why would he even wonder. She covers her face with one hand, gives another sob, almost pointedly.

“It’s not a big deal,” says Eddie, “I just don’t need the inhaler. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Please? It would comfort me so much to know you just have it if you need it. Where’s the harm in having it in a pocket? For my sake,” she adds, and she’s reached out with her hands, almost in supplication, inhaler in the centre of her hand. “Just do this one little thing for me.” Her eyes are red-rimmed, but perfectly dry.

Eddie’s throat feels tight, like something’s caught in it, but he can’t fucking take a deep breath now, there’s no way she wouldn’t see and latch onto it. “I do a lot for you, Myra,” and then, louder, over her scoffing, “I’m not taking the inhaler with me. I’m not. I don’t fucking need it.”

“Severe asthma doesn’t just go away, Eddie,” she snaps back, all softness gone from her tone again.”

“It’s lucky I don’t have asthma then, isn’t it?” he snaps back.

“Yes, you do! I don’t know where you got this idea, but you’re going to get yourself killed! You’ve had asthma since you were a child, you can’t just pretend that never happened!”

“It’s not real! It was never fucking real!” Eddie’s full on yelling now, and Myra’s yelling right back. “I’m _fine_ , okay?”

“You’re not fine,” Myra says, slamming the inhaler onto the kitchen counter, “You’re weak! You’re going to get yourself killed, and you’re going to make me watch it, which is just cruel! I care about you, Eddie-bear, I’m just trying to look after you!”

“I AM NOT WEAK!”

There’s that loud, echoing silence which follows shouting. Eddie can hear his own breaths, loud and harsh, but even and well-paced. He’s not having trouble, but the adrenaline has peaked, and he knows he’ll come crashing down soon.

Myra looks shocked, eyes wide, but even as he thinks this, she starts to regroup, pulls herself together. He can see in her eyes as she tries to decide whether anger or sadness will reach him better right now.

“…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says quietly, lowering his eyes, “I’m sorry, Myra. I need a minute.” He turns around and leaves the room before she can follow, heading straight for the bathroom, and locking the door behind him. He slumps, back to the door, and slowly slides to the ground, until he’s sitting, head on his knees, waiting for his heart rate to go back down. He didn’t bother to pull the cord when he came in, so it’s dark, just a little light spilling in from under the door.

Slowly, slowly, he evens out: he’s breathing softly, not panting, and his heart has stopped racing, and sweat he hadn’t even really noticed turns cold.

Eddie pulls his phone out of his pocket, and lights the room up with its pale blue glow.

_repressed memories returning_ , he googles. It’s not the same, exactly, because it wasn’t his brain repressing things to protect him, so much as some fucking alien clown repressing things for… To hurt him when he got them back? To trick him into regressing? So he’d lose the family and the courage he’d gained. To make him fucking weak. Whatever It’s motivations were, it doesn’t matter, because he lost the memories and the years and the life, and now he’s got to go from here.

He starts reading. A ‘ _dehabilitating process_ ’, sure. Figuring out everything he ever thought he’d known about himself could be considered dehabilitating. It ‘ _can take you back to the past and keep you stuck there, making you feel as though you are re-living the trauma all over again_ ’, that’s, well. _‘It can make you see “safe” people as “unsafe,”_ ’. Fuck.

It’s not the first time he’s seen Sonia where Myra is standing, for all that he tells Richie to fuck off whenever he starts to joke about it. It’s hard not to see the parallels, even when he isn’t getting a fucking overlay. That’s not fair to Myra though, probably? She’s a safe person that he’s seeing as unsafe, right?

He’s forty years old, and he’s sitting on his bathroom floor at 10.30pm, because he told his wife that he wasn’t going to take an inhaler into work tomorrow. The adrenaline’s fully gone now, and he’s just cold and exhausted. He woke up in the hospital, and he had honestly thought that that was it, but it wasn’t. He survived, and now he’s got to keep living, and figuring out how he wants to do that. He’s got to figure out how to deal with all these demons he’d forgotten about. He’s got to get up off of this cold bathroom floor. He starts there.

—

“So. Still going to make him a risk analyst?” asks Eddie, sort of meanly amused.

“Well,” equivocates Bill, on the other end of the line. “I mean there’s something there, I think, about assessing danger for people in his daily life, but then not recognising the horrors he’s about to face once the haunting plot starts up. You know?”

“I–” Eddie stops, incredulous, to scowl at his phone for a moment, “Do _I_ know anything about the irony of a risk analyst being caught up in some sort of supernatural horror? _Bill_!” Before he can really get started, Bill starts apologising and laughing at the same time, and Eddie finds himself laughing as well. “I am never helping you with novel research again, in case that wasn’t obvious."

“That’s fair,” says Bill, “Most people in my life have already committed to that, so I had to quickly mine you Losers before you figured it out… I think Audra first told me to do my own research on maybe the second date?”

“How’s that going, by the way?” asks Eddie quickly, before the conversation can move on.

“How’s which going?” asks Bill after a beat.

“Audra. How’s it been? Going home after Derry, making things work again, the whole deal.” Eddie finds himself wishing that he had was on a landline, so that he could twist a cord, occupy his hands, do something. Instead he’s sitting in his boring metal and plastic office on his mobile, headphones on, so that he can still scroll through spreadsheets while he talks to Bill. It’s officially booked in as a one-to-one with a potential client, which he felt fine about when he was giving Bill the rundown on what it means to be a risk analyst, and which he feels weirder about now, suddenly.

Bill blows a heavy breath out, directly into the phone. “Straightforward as ever. I forgot that you never really liked to beat around the bush.”

“Makes one of us,” interjects Eddie, with a certain level of fondness.

“No kidding,” says Bill, but Eddie can hear the smile in his voice. “Well it’s not like it’s been easy. I’m sure you get that, more than anyone. It’s not been easy. It’s been really fucking hard, honestly.”

“But worth it?” Eddie asks, “Hard work, but worth it?”

“Definitely, man, of course.” He doesn’t even hesitate. “Difficult, but worth it.I’m so glad, honestly. It’s finally starting to pull together, and honestly I feel so much better than I did before. It was tough, deciding what to do, and what to tell her, and _how_ to tell her, but I really do think we’re coming out of it stronger than ever.”

“What _did_ you tell her?” asks Eddie. As he was listening to Bill, he had methodically closed every tab on his computer, so now he goes about methodically reopening them all again.

“The truth, more or less,” admits Bill, “Initially I think she thought it was all a metaphor for trauma, but she’s beginning to understand. It’s easier for her to deal with my bad days now that she can comprehend a cause, I think. We’ve talked a lot about accepting and looking for happiness and happy endings in real life, and, oh I don’t know, I feel like we understand each other as people better now. We’d been struggling, before all this, and if I’m honest when I left Derry I wasn’t sure whether I’d be going back to Audra or not, whether there was something worth trying to salvage it. I’m so fucking glad I managed to make it work instead.” Both of their phones buzz, presumably a message in the groupchat, and it seemingly jars Bill out of his train of thought. “Enough about me,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh, “What did you tell Myra?”

“As little as I could,” blurts Eddie without thinking. “Hey Bill? How did you know that what you had with Audra was worth working on?”

There’s a very long pause. Long enough that Eddie thinks that Bill might try to make him talk about it, and then he’ll have to fake an upcoming meeting.

“I saw her again,” says Bill, and it’s thoughtful, ponderous. “I saw her and I immediately remembered the first time I saw her, in this awful avant-garde play which had been writtenby an old college friend. It was a terrible, terrible play, and she shone despite that. So I waited at the stage door to compliment her, and she said I could buy her dinner, and she made me laugh for two hours. She made my own dreams crystallise, from these foggy,formless thoughts into a viable career, with her at my side, living her own dreams. And I remembered how good it had been before, and I couldn’t remember why I’d stopped putting any effort in, Or why we’d started fighting in the first place, and whether any of the hills I’d chosen to die on would be worth the cost. So I started with an apology, and then asked her out to dinner again, to figure out what to do next. So far it’s been a lot of couples therapy, and explaining old motives, and getting to know each other again. It’s been really good, Eddie.”

“What–” Eddie starts, but his voice cracks a little, so he stops to drink some water from his water bottle. “What would it have taken, do you think, to decide it wouldn’t be worth making it work?”

“I guess if I had seen at her and not been able to remember the good things, only the bad. Or maybe if I’d known that we weren’t going to have good times again.”

“Right,” says Eddie, and he knows he sounds quiet, sounds subdued.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” says Bill after a moment.

“I know. Hey Bill, I’ve got a meeting coming up, I’m going to have to head out, but feel free to message if you have any other questions for your protagonist. Talk to you soon, take care, bye!”

—

“Okay, I see. Now, I want you to be honest about this, you said some of your best friends have been changing their lives since your accident?” asks Nadia, looking at Eddie seriously over her cup of tea.

Eddie tries to maintain eye-contact, even though he’s pretty sure he knows where this is going. “Yeah, yes. Beverly’s filed for divorce, Ben’s moving across the country, Mike quit his job. Richie, uh. Richie came out.”

“Right,” says Nadia patiently, like they haven’t talked about all of these things for at least twenty minutes each before today. “They had things in their life that made them unhappy, or things they thought they could improve or change to be happier, and so they have made those changes and actively pursued better things. Is that fair to say?”

“Yes.”

Nadia waits a long moment, right up until Eddie looks back at her again. “Are they ruining things by pursuing change? Have they wasted their lives? Would you ever tell them that they had?”

“What? No!” Eddie can’t help the outrage, even as he knows what’s coming next, “It’s differ–”

“What’s different, exactly? If it’s acceptable to say that because you want to change things about your life, you must have wasted it, that it’s meaningless or pointless to change things, and to do so would be proving that you have wasted it, well. Why is it acceptable to say that to yourself, if you wouldn’t say it to someone else?”

Nadia’s voice is calm and measured throughout, infuriatingly reasonable. Eddie’s staring hard at the plant in the corner of the room, trying to keep the tears which sting his eyes from blurring his vision too much. His throat works, but he can’t give a reply for a long while. Nadia waits patiently, until he has to respond.

“They–” he stutters, choking on the words, “They don’t deserve it, it’s different.”

“Eddie,” says Nadia, so softly, like you would to a small child or a spooked animal, he thinks, “Eddie you don’t deserve it either. You don’t deserve to be treated with cruelty, not by anyone, not even yourself.”

A few minutes later, after he has collected himself a little more, and having taken the proffered tissue, Eddie gathers his nerve enough to admit quietly, “I didn’t, um. I didn’t think that’s what I was doing, I didn’t realise.”

“That’s okay, Eddie. It can be really hard to see, to recognise how we treat ourselves. I want you to spend some time thinking about this, okay? Try to recognise when you’re saying something to or about yourself that you wouldn’t want to say about one of your friends. Try to extend kindness to yourself.”

It sounds so simple when Nadia says it. Sounds both easy, and also harder than it was to walk back into Neibolt. Like a solution to a problem he hadn’t known about, an answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask.

—

He’s been back at the office for several weeks now, so he definitely take a little leeway and have a long lunch. Ben’s out of town for some conference, and Bev had texted him last night asking if he could do lunch after her meeting with her lawyers this morning. He hadn’t been able to reply until after he’d left for work, but she knows to expect that by now.

Bev’s been craving this Korean place, and honestly Eddie’s craving anything that isn’t his lean diet meal. Plain grilled chicken breasts, brown rice, spinach. The same lunch that Myra’s packed for him for years. The same one he’s wanted for years. It’s boring as hell.

“I know Korean barbecue is popular right now, but honestly I’m just feeling the bulgogi, and maybe we could split some kimchee pancakes to start?” says Bev, flipping through the menu quickly.

She looks good, lighter than he thought she’d be directly after a meeting with her lawyers. She’s had a haircut since last week, it’s around her jaw now, slight curls bouncing as she moves, and it makes her seem even more animated than usual. She’s wearing colourful, bright clothes, and chunky jewellery, and sunglasses pushed up to her forehead. It’s definitely autumn now, but Bev is a summery vision. She’s practically glowing, but Eddie thinks it’s probably happiness more than her clothes, or the weather. She just seems so much happier now, so much more at peace. They’ve met up a couple of times since Ben and Bev got back to New York, but it strikes Eddie every single time. She looks _so_ different to the woman he knew in Derry, even when it was all over.

“Are you, like, actually allergic to anything here?” asks Bev, looking back over the menu in more detail, “Is that something I should be looking out for?”

“Who knows,” sighs Eddie, “It’s probably fine. I really should get an allergies screener done.”

“You really should,” she agrees, “Look, I’ll order a couple of things, dishes with the least obvious allergens, and we can mix and match. Worst comes to worst, I’ll spot you for the ambulance fare.”

Eddie grins, “Sounds like a plan.”

He gave himself a full hour and a half in his calendar, for all that he technically only gets an hour’s lunch break, but he can always stay at work late.

“So,” he says, after they’ve ordered, “How’s the divorce going?”

“Oh, a nightmare,” says Bev airily, “I mean it’s fantastic, of course, because it’s nearly over, and then I’ll be free of having him in my life. And my lawyer’s pretty confident that we’re going to actually get to keep the company, _and_ the designs! I’d go through a lot worse to get this outcome, but also it’s exhausting and painful, and sometimes I hate all lawyers, and the entire concept of marriage, and every single person in the world. Except Knight.”

“So business as usual, then?” Eddie tries, and delights in Bev’s laugh.

“Yeah, exactly. It’s kind of a nightmare, but it’s the best nightmare I’ve ever lived through, and for once I know I’m going to win.” She raises her cup of barley tea for Eddie to cheers. “Re-litigating it has been really hard, particularly on days where I get a bunch of memories resurface from Derry. It gets all jumbled in my head, and I’m so worried I’m going to accuse Tom of something that my dad did, and it’ll undermine the case, but. I’m doing my best to keep moving forward one day at a time. It’s going to be so fucking worth it. It’s going to be amazing.”

They cheers again, defiant with joy, and the kimchee pancakes arrive, along with a variety of side pickles, and a cup of miso each.

“Were you– Did y–” Eddie stops, gathers himself. Across from him, Bev watches patiently, knowingly. “Was it hard? To leave? Not literally, but I mean–”

“I know what you mean, Eds,” says Beverly, kindly. “Leaving for Derry was easy, all hopped up on fear and adrenaline, feeling that pull, that compulsion to get to Maine. Deciding to stay gone? Filing for a divorce? That was fucking hard, Eddie. That was really fucking hard. If,” and here she has to stop, take a shuddering breath, “If Tom had come to Derry to get me, had met me there, I don’t… I want to think I’d still have left, or that I’d still leave, but I don’t know. It should be easier to leave the people who hurt us.” She looks directly at him then, and Eddie’s caught in her gaze. In the easy, sad camaraderie he finds there.

“It should,” he agrees quietly. Then, “You would have. You’ve always been brave.”

“Oh Eddie,” replies Bev, reaching over the table to squeeze his hand lightly, “So have you.”

—

It’s late October, and the unseasonably good weather is finally coming to an end. They had eventually agreed on a week long trip in the second week of November, and instead of crashing at and around Stan’s place, they’ve rented a place up by the Great Smoky Mountains. They’re splitting the cost, but Eddie has a feeling they aren’t actually splitting it evenly, because Stan and Ben have refused to send the listing around.

Eddie booked his travel over two months ago. It’s probably well past time he talks about it with Myra. It definitely is. They have a lot to discuss, anyway.

It’s a Saturday late morning, and Myra’s in the living room. A soap is playing on tv for background noise, and she’s ignoring it in favour of doing something on her phone. These days the house is full of stilted silences, arguments they’re choosing not to have. It’s tense pretty much all the time, but seemingly neither of them wants to break the silence and thereby lose the argument. Eddie stands in the doorway for a moment, gathering himself. Confirming that this is what he wants to do.

“We need to talk,” he says, taking a seat on the armchair, it’s angled towards the sofa, where Myra sits, but not within arm’s reach.

Myra lowers her phone, and looks up at him in, worry written all over her face. “Eddie,” she starts, and Eddie’s always been his bravest when he makes a decision and just steams on ahead, leaving no room for second-guessing. If he’s doing this, he has to fucking _do it_.

“I can’t keep doing this. I _won’t_ keep doing this. I’m going to file for divorce. I’m sorry, Myra, but I’m filing for divorce.”

“What.” Her voice is quiet, shocked. It should be a question, but it isn’t. Eddie finds himself swallowing his words down as he waits for a reaction. Slowly, so slowly, her eyes start to fill with tears, and they spill out over her cheeks. “What are you _saying_ , Eddie-bear? Why would you _do_ this?”

“I’m leaving, Myra. This is it. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t,” she still sounds sort of quiet, shocked. That’ll wear off quickly though, Eddie’s pretty sure. “You can’t just _leave_. We’re married, Eddie. You committed to that, to me. We’re _married_ , you can’t just fucking leave.” There it is, she’s angry now, voice getting louder and louder as she picks up steam. “You think you’ll be okay without me? You think you can do this on your own? We’re a _team_ , and you need me! You need me! You can’t fucking leave! Eddie, you _can’t_. I love you. I love you so much, don’t you love me?”

Eddie feels a little nauseous, but he’s on this path now, and he’s nothing if not stubborn.

“Myra, come on. This isn’t a good life, not for either of us. I’m not doing it anymore, and I’m sorry but I’m not changing my mind on that. This is it.”

She’s still crying, but she looks like she hasn’t even noticed, not over her own anger and frustration. Eddie feels calm, more than anything. Like a sense of peace has washed over him, and he can ride that, keep his head, not resort to yet another useless screaming match. The useful kind of adrenaline, maybe. The peace from finally making a decision about his life, maybe.

“You can’t just abandon me like this, Eddie, you _can’t_ ,” she says, furious and hurt.

“Be honest,” he says, voice still measured, “Are you actually happy? Living here, with me, with our marriage? Are you happy?”

Myra scowls, and then, her voice hitching through her tears, says “Are you?”

“No. I’m not happy. I’m really not happy, Myra. I’d like to be, though. It’s why I’m leaving.” He gets up and heads to their room, to start packing his things up.

That’s not the end of the conversation, of course it isn’t. Myra keeps orbiting him, trying to pick a fight, and Eddie stays his course, packs his bags, and doesn’t concede.

It’s nearly 4pm by the time he gets out of the house, two suitcases and a laptop bag in hand. The shadows are already long, and for all that the air is crisp, the sunlight is still golden, and New York looks beautiful. It’s not his city anymore, maybe, but it’s still beautiful.

_looking forward to seeing you at the reunion_ , he texts Richie, and then he calls a cab and heads to Ben and Bev’s, confident in his welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have a great track record with wips honestly, but i feel fully possessed by this. i've been fully possessed by clowntown recently anyway, so it all checks out. i'm on [twitter ](http://twitter.com/islandoforder)and [tumblr](http://www.islandoforder.tumblr.com) at islandoforder if you want to talk


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